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He did laugh then and pulled out his phone to get a few photos of the shavings, then he moved into the narrow hallway. A bedroom at each end. A closet in between. No bathroom. The smaller room housed a full-size bed, old blue tattered curtains. No sheets. Only a dingy, soiled mattress.
Violet entered. “It’s like they fled the cabin. Or vanished. In a poverty-stricken environment, why would one leave behind all their meager belongings?”
“I don’t know,” John murmured and spotted an old pencil box on the dresser. “Do you happen to have an extra pair of gloves?”
She dug into her pocket and handed him a set. He rummaged through the items in the box. A pocket knife, a few quarters, a child’s white Bible and a suede coin purse. He opened it and inside was a faded photo of a girl, maybe seven or eight. Blond pigtails. Pretty. He used his cell phone camera and took a photo of the picture and the coin purse.
“You think this means something?”
Violet placed her finger in the cleft of her chin. “My gut says everything here means something.”
John’s gut echoed Violet’s. Something sinister hung in the air, like a taunt to come further inside. To step into the past and see the nightmare with a firsthand view.
But like words spoken that couldn’t be taken back, what they might see couldn’t be unseen.
And some things should never be looked upon.
As they exited the cabin, Violet paused and turned her head toward the woods.
“What is it?”
“You feel that? The sense of being watched?”
He didn’t.
But maybe it was because he wasn’t the one being watched.
Chapter Three
Rage kindled in his blood like flames that couldn’t be quenched. They had no right to be here. To handle his things. He’d seen the law drive up earlier, carry out the bodies.
Atta had always fascinated him. The way her body curved and her hips swayed as she walked. Dark long hair that slipped over her shoulders like satin and big eyes with long lashes like elm switches. Skin smooth like the stones from the crick running through the holler.
He balled his fist, his nails digging into his palm as the two intruders finally left. Then he got a good look at the woman agent in her FBI windbreaker. She was celestial. Same long hair as Atta. Anger subsiding, he studied her as his blood heated and his abdomen tightened.
She was careful in stepping off the porch, and the lawman held her elbow to aid her balance. As if he was some great protector. He grunted.
He knew men like that. Tough and cocky. Believing a pretty woman might show him affection if he behaved in a gentlemanly way.
Never worked.
Didn’t matter how kindly he was or how many doors he held open or even how many gifts he gave them. They didn’t want him. Never said yes.
Only no.
He was sick to death of hearing no.
How many times had he rescued a damsel in distress at the Swallow? Been the knight in shining armor, protecting them from a tragedy waiting to happen at the hands of a drunken letch. And yet, they’d rather be in the arms of those men than his. He would have treated them like queens. Been gentle and given them their heart’s desires.
But no. No. No. No. The words echoed in his ears until he plugged them with his fingers to drown out the word he hated most.
The word he heard most.
Wasn’t fair.
Wasn’t right.
Wasn’t going to ever happen again.
